Poems of Experience - Ella Wheeler Wilcox (no david read aloud TXT) 📗

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems of Experience, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (#7 in our series by Ella Wheeler Wilcox)

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Title: Poems of Experience

Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5170] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on May 27, 2002] [Most recently updated: May 27, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, POEMS OF EXPERIENCE ***

 

Transcribed from the 1917 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

POEMS OF EXPERIENCE

Contents

The Empty Bowl Keep Going A Prayer The London ‘Bobby’ Read at the Benefit of Clara Morris Two Ghosts Woman Battle Hymn of the Women Memories See? The Purpose The White Man A Moorish Maid Lincoln I know not Interlude Resurrection The Voices of the City If Christ came Questioning England, Awake! Be not attached An Episode The Voice of the Voiceless Time’s Defeat The Hymn of the Republic The Radiant Christ At Bay The Birth of Jealousy Summer’s Farewell The Goal Christ Crucified The Trip to Mars Fiction and Fact Progress How the White Rose Came I look to Science Appreciation The Awakening Most blest is he Nirvana Life Two men Only be still Pardoned Out The Tides Progression Acquaintance Attainment The tower-room Father The new Hawaiian girl

THE EMPTY BOWL

I held the golden vessel of my soul And prayed that God would fill it from on high. Day after day the importuning cry Grew stronger—grew, a heaven-accusing dole Because no sacred waters laved my bowl. ‘So full the fountain, Lord, wouldst Thou deny The little needed for a soul’s supply? I ask but this small portion of Thy whole.’ Then from the vast invisible Somewhere, A voice, as one love-authorised by Him, Spake, and the tumult of my heart was stilled. ‘Who wants the waters must the bowl prepare; Pour out the self, that chokes it to the brim, But emptied vessels, from the source are filled.’

KEEP GOING

Is the goal distant, and troubled the road, And the way long? And heavy your load? Then gird up your courage, and say ‘I am strong,’ And keep going.

Is the work weary, and endless the grind And petty the pay? Then brace up your mind And say ‘Something better is coming my way,’ And keep doing.

Is the drink bitter life pours in your cup - Is the taste gall? Then smile and look up And say ‘God is with me whatever befall,’ And keep trusting.

Is the heart heavy with hope long deferred, And with prayers that seem vain? Keep saying the word - And that which you strive for you yet shall attain. Keep praying.

A PRAYER

Just as I shape the purport of my thought, Lord of the Universe, shape Thou my lot. Let each ill thought that in my heart may be, Mould circumstance and bring ill luck to me.

Until I weed the garden of my mind From all that is unworthy and unkind, Am I not master of my mind, dear Lord? Then as I THINK, so must be my reward.

Who sows in weakness, cannot reap in strength, That which we plant, we gather in at length. Great God of Justice, be Thou just to me, And as my thoughts, so let my future be.

 

THE LONDON ‘BOBBY’ A TRIBUTE TO THE POLICEMEN OF ENGLAND’S CAPITAL

 

Here in my cosy corner, Before a blazing log, I’m thinking of cold London Wrapped in its killing fog; And, like a shining beacon Above the picture grim, I see the London ‘Bobby,’ And sing my song for him.

I see his stalwart figure, I see his kindly face, I hear his helpful answer At any hour or place. For, though you seek some by-way Long miles from his own beat, He tells you all about it, And how to find the street.

He looks like some bold Viking, This king of earth’s police - Yet in his voice lies feeling, And in his eye lies peace; He knows and does his duty - (What higher praise is there?) And London’s lords and paupers Alike receive his care.

He has a regal bearing, Yet one that breathes repose; It is the look and manner Of one who THINKS and KNOWS. Oh, men who govern nations, In old worlds or in new, Turn to the London ‘Bobby’ And learn a thing or two.

 

READ AT THE BENEFIT OF CLARA MORRIS (AMERICA’S GREAT EMOTIONAL ACTRESS)

 

The Radiant Rulers of Mystic Regions Where souls of artists are fitted for birth Gathered together their lovely legions And fashioned a woman to shine on earth. They bathed her in splendour, They made her tender, They gave her a nature both sweet and wild; They gave her emotions like storm-stirred oceans, And they gave her the heart of a little child.

These Radiant Rulers (who are not human Nor yet divine like the gods above) Poured all their gifts in the soul of woman, That fragile vessel meant only for love. Still more they taught her, Still more they brought her, Till they gave her the world for a harp one day: And they bade her string it, They bade her ring it, While the stars all wondered to hear her play.

She touched the strings in a master fashion, She uttered the cry of a world’s despair: Its long hid secret, its pent-up passion, She gave to the winds in a vibrant air. For oh! the heart of her, That was the art of her. Great with the feeling that makes men kin. Art unapproachable, Art all uncoachable, Fragrance and flame from the spirit within.

The earth turns ever an ear unheeding To the sorrows of art, as it cries ‘encore.’ And she played on the harp till her hands were bleeding, And her brow was bruised by the laurels she wore. She knew the trend of it, She knew the end of it - Men heard the music and men felt the thrill. Bound to the altar Of art, could she falter? Then came a silence—the music was still.

And yet in the echoes we seem to hear it; In waves unbroken it circles the earth: And we catch in the light of her dauntless spirit A gleam from the centre that gave her birth. Still is the fame of her Felt in the name of her - But low lies the harp that once thrilled to her strain; No hand has taken it, No hand can waken it - For the soul of her art was her secret of pain.

TWO GHOSTS

Two dead men boarded a spectral ship In the astral Port of Space; On that ghost-filled barque, they met in the dark, And halted, face to face.

‘Now whither away’—called one of the ghosts, ‘This ship sets sail for Earth. On the astral plane you must remain, Where the newly dead have birth.’

‘But I could not stay and I would not stay,’ The other ghost replied; ‘I must hurry back to the old Earth track And stand at my loved one’s side.

‘She weeps for me in her lonely room, In the land from whence I came; Oh! stow me away in this ship, I pray, For I hear her call my name.’

‘You must not go, and you shall not go,’ The first ghost cried in wrath. ‘Your work is planned, in the astral land, And a guide will show you the path.’

‘But the one I love’—‘I loved her too,’ The first ghost stood and cried; ‘And year on year I waited here, Yea, waited till you died.

‘For I would not come between you two, Nor shadow her joy with fear, But mine is the right, I claim this night To visit the earthly sphere.

‘For you are dead, and I am dead, And you had her long—so long. And to look on the grace of her worshipped face, Ah! now it can do no wrong.

‘I am fettered to Earth by love of her, And hers is the spell divine, That can help me rise, to the realm that lies Just over the astral line.

‘I have kept to the laws of God and man, I have suffered and made no moan; Now my little share of joy, I swear I will have—and have it alone.’

A skeleton crew the anchor drew, And the ship from the port swung free; With a muffled clang the ghost bell rang, And the boat sailed out to sea.

And one ghost stood on the deck and laughed, As only a glad ghost can; While a swooning soul was dragged to his goal, To work out the astral span.

And a woman wept, and prayed ere she slept, For a dream to ease her pain; But she dreamed instead of a man long dead, Who had loved her all in vain.

WOMAN

Strange are the ways that her feet have trod Since first she was set in the path of duty, Finished and fair by the hand of God, To carry her message of love and beauty. Delicate creature of light and shade, She gleamed like an opal, on wide worlds under: And earth looked up to her half afraid, While heaven looked down at her, full of wonder.

Flame of the comet and mist of the moon, And ray of the sun all mingled in her. And the heart of her asked but a single boon - That love should seek her, and find her, and win her. She grasped the scope of the First Intent That made her kingdom FOR HER, no other, And joyfully into her place she went - The primal mate, and the primal mother.

Large was that kingdom and vast her sphere, And lightly she lifted and bore each burden. Lightly she laughed in the eyes of fear, For love was her recompense, love her guerdon. And never in camp, or in cave, or in home, Rose voice of mother or mate complaining. And never the foot of her sought to roam, Till love in the heart of the man seemed waning.

In the broad rich furrows by woman turned Man, unwitting, set plough and harrow. For worlds to conquer she had not yearned, Till he spoke of her feminine sphere as ‘narrow.’ The lullaby changed to a martial strain - When he took her travail, and song for granted - And forth she forged in his own domain - Till the strange ‘new woman,’ the old supplanted.

‘Strange’ with the glow of a